A letter to a forgotten version of myself
You make it out alive. I know it seems as though you’re suffocating with the weight of everything and anything, but it subsides. And I don’t tell you this often enough, but I’m so fucking proud of you for existing on those days where you just wanted to light yourself on fire to get out of this skin.
There have been many different versions of you since. It has been bittersweet to let go of each one, but that’s life. You can’t hold on to these temporal things. And even though it hurts at the time it becomes more poetic with age.
You let go of all your friends. It was tough but it was the right choice. You weren’t sure of it then but you are now. And she doesn’t hate you. And you don’t hate her. And you’ll cry about it sometimes but it’s all for the best.
You’re still struggling. You still haven’t figured it all out but you’re starting to accept the fact that you never will. And I guess that’s peace. I guess that’s the closest we’ll ever get. And I’m okay with that.
You become the person you think you want to be. You stop eating meat, start meditating, start running, you think this is it and this is all you’ll ever need to be, but you’re wrong. Every single moment changes you and it’s useless to resist that. Sometimes you’ll forget the bigger picture and you try to go back to an older version of yourself but you don’t need to worry. You’ll always find your way back home.
This isn’t really for an older version of myself. This is for me right now. Because sometimes I lose track of the process. I forget that everything comes and goes. I forget to come back home. But what often happens is that you find your way back accidentally. When you’re not looking for it. When you’re just existing from moment to moment. That’s where home is.